The North Remembers
by CarpentersDream
Summary: A re-imagining of the A Song of Ice and Fire universe; The Starks are a close knit family trained to protect one another and their kingdom. When tensions spill over between the North and the kingdoms of the South, the Stark family will be tested as never before. Alliances must be made as enemies press on all sides and a civil war threatens to rip the seams of Westeros apart.
1. Prologue

**A/N: Thank you to everyone for clicking on my story! This is my first story and I really want to do it justice. Letting y'all know now that his story is a slow burn that doesn't really follow the cannon of ASOIAF or GoT. I'm making a lot of personal choices here but it's fiction so I can do that! This first chapter will be a bit slow and probably short because I'm trying to get my bearings and introduce the characters and some of the changes I've made to them. This story will exclusively follow the Stark family and will be told through multiple views in the third person. I hope y'all stick with it and enjoy. Please feel free to leave me reviews, be they positive or if you have creative criticism. Thanks!**

**All my love, KSB**

Sansa and Arya paced around each other, the girls wary and rigid. The cool morning air chilled their hot, sweat-soaked skin as they sucked in ragged breaths. They were tired and sore and bruised. Too stubborn and competitive to wear armor or use shields, they ached from the many wounds they inflicted upon each other with their blunted weapons.

"You seem to be fatigued, sweet sister," Sansa said with a graceful smile dancing on her lips. "Mayhap you will find it in your best interest to yield."

Arya scowled at her elder sister's polite affront. "I think it is you who should yield to me. There's needlework to be done and songs to be sung. Those_ activities_ would be more suited for you, I find."

Sansa body went still, her graceful smile gaining a sharp edge. Arya stilled as well; cautiously, she watched as Sansa lifted her two short swords. Sunlight glinted off the blades and made Arya squint as the glare hit her eyes. Their bodies were as tense as ever, and at the slightest provocation the attack would be on. Arya clutched her Braavosi-styled scepter in her left hand, waiting for Sansa to rise to the bait of her challenge. Sansa's words were thick with a warning when she spoke. "Careful now. It would be such a shame should your nose happen to break in an _accident_."

"Stop taunting each other and finish the match!" Ser Rodrick bellowed from the outside of the sparring ring. To his right stood Robb and Jon, watching with amused faces. Bran was at his left, the young lad enraptured by his two sisters' fight. Across the yard and seated at the edge of a railed balcony was the baby Rickon, the young four-year-old shouting encouragements and begging to be allowed to have a turn. And of course, towering above Rickon and overlooking the match was Lord Eddard himself, his focused eyes and cautious face scrutinizing every move his daughters made.

Noon was fast approaching and morning training was soon to give way to work duties of the day, but those who had finished opted to watch Sansa and Arya as the engaged in their dance instead. A small crowd of fledgling soldiers and servants had whooped and cheered, but now, silence had grown in the standoff. Ser Rodrick called out again. "You've both expended so much energy bickering with each other, it seems you've forgotten the weapons in your hands. Now, get on with it!"

Needing no more encouragement, Sansa lashed out; Arya was prepared and dodged the swing of her first sword whilst throwing up her own blade to block the second. Sansa ducked her head as Arya's fist lashed out and spun away just as the Braavosi sword swiped at her face. The Stark sisters hacked and cursed at each other, prodding and probing for a weak point. Over and over they blocked and dodged attacks, exerting themselves time and time again.

Sansa spared a glance down. _Her lead foot sticks out at an odd angle when she lunges_, she realized. Arya had not yet mastered the footwork of the Braavosi style. Patiently, Sansa waited for Arya to lunge again. _There!_ Just as Arya thrust her sword out, Sansa went low, sweeping her leg out from under her. Arya hit the ground in a heep, her sword clattering out of her hand and landing a few feet away from her. Before she could scramble to her feet, a sword came dangerously close to her eyes. She slowly slipped her hand toward the dagger she kept concealed at her hip, but stopped when she felt the second sword press against the palm of her hand.

"Do not even consider it, you troglodyte. This match is mine." Triumphant, Sansa beamed at Ser Rodrick, who nodded his approval. Robb and Jon chuckled and Bran and Rickon cheered. The crowd of observers applauded and then dispersed, going about their daily business. Sansa then turned to her father, who looked at her with pride filled eyes. Jubilation filled her.

Arya arose in a heat, furious that she had been bested. "Count yourself lucky my footwork has not been perfected, Sansa. Because when it is, you will never best me again.

"Not if I have any say in the matter." Sansa ruffled Arya's hair, enraging the younger Stark girl even more. Sputtering, she chased the laughing Sansa into Winterfell, both savoring these moments before their lady duties had to be fulfilled

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Afternoons at Winterfell were dull in comparison to the adrenaline-filled mornings and the raucous event that was dinner. After her sparring session with Arya, Sansa retreated to her chambers to prepare for her more feminine duties. She washed the sweat off of her body, cleaned the minor scrapes she found on her arms and legs, and changed from her simple roughspun tunic and breeches with a slitted dress covering to a dress proper for a lady of the noblest house of the North.

Sansa sat down at an end table in the corner of her room and picked up a hairbrush. She delicately dragged it through, careful to detangle her hair without ripping it out. She caught her reflection in the mirror. With her deep auburn locks, pale skin, and blue eyes clear as river rapids, she was beautiful by any standard. Beauty mattered to her mother. At one time it mattered to her, too. But she was ten-and-four now, soon to be a woman grown, and she knew better than anyone that it took a lot more than beauty to survive in a world. A world that preyed on beautiful girls. Absentmindedly, she touched the locket around her neck, before she shook her head.

_Best not dwell on the past now,_ she thought. _I've duties to attend to. This shall be a good day. I am becoming stronger and wiser. No longer am I prey._

Sansa stood and strode out of her chambers. She was tall for her age and not done growing. Her curvy body was slender and lithe, feminine but with a predatory edge. Her strides were long and her head was held high. Sansa walked with an air of nobility and a confidence in her own prowess and nature. The dagger she concealed in her boot did not hurt either.

_Off to needlework with Septa Mordane._ Sansa rolled her eyes, dreading the mundane task with the snarky septa.

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Supper at Winterfell was never a dull affair. Several fires crackled in the hearths dispersed about the Great Hall to combat the end of summer chills. Men deep in their cups yelled loudly and fondled passing serving wenches, who had no problems in slapping their clumsy hands away. Laugher echoed across the hall, and men and women alike smiled easy. Lord Eddard looked content at the head of the table on the raised dais. The Lord's table. With his family around him and his men in front of him, he felt a bloom of happiness in his heart.

His beautiful wife, his Cat, looked at him with adoring eyes. He saw Robb telling an animated story to his youngest brothers, the little boys' faces enrapt. Whatever tale Robb was spinning must have been amusing, for they erupted with laughter. At the other end of the table, his bastard son Jon sat calmly as Arya badgered him about the adventures he, Robb, and Theon had gone on. Sansa rolled her eyes in annoyance, but it was plain to see the affection she carried for her both her siblings in that moment. Sansa had gifted Arya an embroidered holster full of throwing knives as a peace offering. Not that Arya knew how to throw knives; yet, she was grateful all the same and offered her sister a begrudging hug for the gift. Theon sipped his wine and asked leave to visit with some acquaintances at the lower table. Ned permitted him and watched as he swaggered over, bragging about some whore he had bedded at the brothel in the Winter's Town.

Winterfell may not have been as grandly adorned as the castles of the southron noble lords. The Starks may not have been the wealthiest of families. But Winterfell and the Starks were and old and honorable. As Ned looked around at all his loved ones and the place he called home, he found he could not be more thankful for the sparsely adorned walls chipped with age, or for the rough wooden tables in need of sanding. This place was one, these people his people.

_Let this last please,_ he prayed to the old gods, the gods of the forest and river and tree. The gods of his ancestors and those of the First Men, whose blood coursed through his veins. _Keep us together and let us grow strong. Keep us humble and honorable. Let us be virtuous. For winter is coming._


	2. The Old Way

Wrapped in furs, the Winterfell party clung to warmth in the cold morning air. The coldest morning of the year. Fitting, considering their business. Robb sat atop his horse and attempted to appear as lordly as his father. He tried, and failed, to ignore the itch on his face caused by the scratchy red hair sprouting along his jaw. He was ten-and-six, rightfully a man grown, and thought a beard such as fathers would be most fitting. He glanced at Jon, his fiercest rival and best friend. Jon looked back at him, no amusement whatsoever on his face.

Robb and Jon were similar in age and height, but in not much else. Though Robb loved his brother, their differences were staggering. Jon was a sullen lad, serious and sulky. He was more comfortable in the small company of his siblings rather than with a large group of people, and he was never completely at ease around his father. Jon was prone to frustration when he struggled to master a maneuver or skill and would work tirelessly day and night until it was accomplished. Robb was only competitive because of Jon. He could still be stern and lordly, as was expected of him but Robb was quicker to smile and enjoyed jesting with Theon and their men. Between the two half-brothers, Jon was the superior swordsman but Robb was the better with the lance.

They had been summoned by their lord father in the early hours of dawn. A rider had informed Lord Stark that a deserter of the Night's Watch had been captured a three hour's ride from Winterfell, right off the King's Road. It fell upon Lord Eddard as the Warden of the North to dispense the king's justice and to carry out the sentence of the man's crime. And the crime for desertion under sacred oath was death.

His lady mother, the Lady Catelyn Stark, had not been pleased when she learned that Lord Stark intended to take their daughters on the endeavor. "They are of the North, a place of ice and steel. Northern women rule just as men do. And though it pains me to subject our daughters to the grisly manner of our business, it is imperative they learn. They must be strong. Winter is coming." Lady Catelyn could not deny this truth, and so begrudgingly let them attend. Though this was not Sansa's first time seeing the King's Justice being carried out by their lord father, her mother still protested. However, it was Arya's and Bran's first time, and it fell upon Robb and Jon to prepare them.

He addressed his younger siblings, "keep your reigns well in hand. The horses may get spooked."

"And do not look away," Jon added. "Father will know if you do."

Arya and Bran nodded vigorously, determined to prove they were mature enough to view the gruesome act their lord father would have to commit. Lord Stark dismounted his horse and approached the man captured. He was filthy, his black rags greasy and patched several times over. Dirt caked his pores and sweat discolored his darkened face. He was missing his ears. Robb looked at the man and felt a pang of sympathy for him. He would die filthy and with his honor sullied by his betrayal. But this man was no monster, only scared.

His father addressed the man with a solemn tone. "You are accused of abandoning your post and deserting the Night's Watch after you swore an oath before gods and men. An act such as this is an offense punishable by death. Do you deny these claims?" The man shook his head. Father beckoned Theon forward. As his ward, Theon carried the responsibility of being his lord father's squire. Theon dismounted his horse and handed the reigns to a man-at-arms. Theon carried Ice, the Stark's ancestral two-handed greatsword forged with Valyrian steel.

Rob could not stop the flow of jealousy that overcame him. Theon Greyjoy had lived at Winterfell much longer than he did at his family's seat on the Iron Islands. They were raised as brothers. And though Theon's boisterous and cocky personality irked Robb, he loved the man as he loved his other siblings. But Robb could not help but feel as though the right to bear his father's sword, and one day _his_ sword, should belong to him. He swallowed his pride as he heard the metallic clang as the blade was drawn from its sheath.

"Very well," his father intoned. "In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and of the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I, Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, do sentence you to die. Do you have any last words?"

The man, who Robb would later realize he had never learned the name of, looked up then. Looked into his father's eyes with the most chilling stare, one that made him shift uncomfortably in his saddle. He took care to grip his reigns and clenched his teeth. The man spoke, "I am sorry for abandoning my post, but I regret it not. I have looked into the eyes of evil, and if my brothers had any sense, they would follow my lead. Winter is coming, Lord Stark. Winter is coming."

Father closed his eyes and whispered a prayer to the old gods. Robb leaned in slightly but could not hear the faint prayer, and he could not read his lips. Then, with no warning, Father lifted the greatsword and took the man's head off with one, sure stroke. The head hit a frozen root of the stump the execution had taken place and rolled to Theon's feet. He laughed and kicked it away with his boot. _Ass,_ Robb thought.

Robb glanced toward Arya and Robb. Bran's knuckles were white and he was breathing hard; this was a tough scene for any seven-year-old to witness. Arya, at ten-and-two, the small and boyish Arya had just witnessed her first execution as well, but carried a different demeanor. She appeared calm, but Robb knew that was far from the truth. Arya would not look away from the snow stained with the man's blood that had squirted from his neck. It pained Robb to see them this way. As his brother, it was his job to protect them, but unfortunately, he could not spare them the cruelty of the natural world.

He felt a hand reach out and touch his upper arm. Glancing over, he saw Sansa, looking and acting every bit as a lady should. Robb was not a fool. He knew that despite her womanly demeanor, she could kill as easily as any man. And he knew that she was just as disturbed as his siblings. As he was. They took no joy in taking a life.

"They shall be okay, dear brother," Sansa breathed.

"I know," Robb responded. "I know."

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Robb, Jon, Theon, Sansa, and Arya raced ahead of the main party on their horses, joking and cackling with each other. Bran had fallen back, his pony not able to keep up with the larger beasts. Jon was in a bitter mood at Theon's earlier behavior, but was trying, for the sake of his siblings, to be cordial. Taking a man's life should bring no pleasure, but Theon seemed to find pleasure in everything. He was a man given into his vices, a glutton in every sense of the word. It was an amazement he had sired no bastards considering his reputation with the local whores and a few wily servant girls. A man with honor such as this had no business in the North; but Theon was like a brother, and he had to show respect to him as his lord father's ward and as the heir to one of the great Houses of Westeros.

"The man died bravely," Sansa piped up from her position in the middle of their riding party.

"Brave?" Arya spat out. "The man was a craven! A deserter. You heard the words from his mouth, he regretted it not. Abandoning your oaths because you are scared is not courageous."

Theon chimed in, "Aye, the little lass has the right of it. The man was nothing but a craven. The wall has no need for men like him."

Jon shook his head, his mop of curls falling into his eyes. "Aye, he was scared. And that's why he died bravely."

"Do not be foolish Jon, what are you saying?" Theon insulted.

"The man did not cry nor beg for his life. He knew his wrongdoings and knew his life was forfeit, and yet he accepted his fate. He looked father in the eyes and spoke his last words clearly. It is only when we are afraid that we can obtain courage. And in that moment, that man finally had it."

Robb grunted his agreement and Sansa gave a superior nod.

Theon had more to say. "Deserting was not that man's only crime, I tell you. He was probably a thief or poacher and those crimes sealed his fate. And I wager he broke more than one of his oaths, not just deserting. That man may have killed a fellow Night's Watchmen in his escape, and I guarantee he fucked one or two whores at the local brothel."

"Take care with your words, Greyjoy. Such foul language should not be used in front of my sisters," Robb scolded.

Theon laughed. "Mind you, Robb, your sisters are growing up. Look at Sansa, she is nearly a woman grown. Soon she will be married and her husband will bed her and her maidenhead will be gone. And who knows, it could be I that is wed to her." Theon turned to her and wiggled his eyebrows.

Jon and Robb shared a look. Both of them were frowning, and Jon could see the anger in Robb's eyes. It was an anger reflected in his own. How dare Greyjoy presume to say such vulgar things about his family? And in their presence! Robb turned to Theon, his voice carrying a dangerous authority to it as he spoke, "Understand, Greyjoy, I have an affection for you, but should you raise your tongue and besmirch the honor of either of my sisters again, I'll have you gelded."

Sansa spoke up, her voice just a tad too chipper to be taken completely as a joke. "Fear not Robb. Should Theon's tongue grow sharp again, I have a mind to geld him myself. Surely he knows how fond I am of my dagger and how close I keep it to me." Theon paled and coughed an apology. Robb and Arya laughed outright, taking pleasure in Theon's embarrassment. Even Jon cracked a smile.

Sansa began to sing. A simple riding tune, nothing fancy, but her voice was beautiful and her tone infectious, and soon the others joined in. Jon could not find it in him to sing with them. It was not his prerogative. But he did hum along and every once in a while, he would clap to the beat of the song, their voices and hands harmonious.

After a time, Robb pulled his horse up suddenly. The rest of them followed suit. Jon looked at his half-brother, curious as to the determined face he was making.

"Quiet now, did any of you hear that?" he asked.

"Hear what?" Arya inquired back.

Jon closed his eyes and strained his ears. He heard the slight breeze whipping gusts of wind by his ears. He heard a stream off his left in the forest. And then, faint as a murmur, he heard it, a mewling coming from the forest. "That sound," he said.

Jon and Robb took off at the same time, with Theon right on their heels and the girls coming up behind them. Their horses barreled through the hunting path, the noises growing louder and louder. Soon, they approached a large fallen log and were forced to abandon their horses. Theon, ever the daredevil, hopped the log and cursed out, "Bloody fuck! What in the seven hells is that?"

Curious now, Jon hopped over and saw what Greyjoy saw. The largest wolf he had ever seen was before him. Near as tall as a horse with teeth as long as daggers, it was a sight to behold. It lay in the thin snow, blood matted in its shaggy gray fur. An antler lay in its throat, the tines piercing out of its head and neck at different angles. It was dead. And Jon knew exactly what this thing was. "'Tis a direwolf."

"A dead direwolf," Robb remarked. "I do not believe they live this far south. Strange."

Arya had a puzzled look on her face. "If the direwolf is dead, then what was making that noise you lot heard?"

Jon looked around, craning his neck. He heard it again and raced to the source. It took him some time, but he found them. Half buried in the snow, a sloppy job at hiding them, were a litter of direwolf pups.

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Ned sat ponderously. This had been a long and rather terrible day. First, he had to ride out to execute a deserter. The man's last words had disturbed him and left him with a deep sense of foreboding that did not sit well in his bones. Then, upon his return, Cat had informed him that Jon Arryn, his beloved foster father, was dead. And now news had reached him that Robert Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms, was making the month-long trek to Winterfell. _A month to prepare. A month to think. I know what he will ask of me, and I have no will to accept, but I fear I must._

In front of Ned sat his children. His five trueborn, his bastard, and even his ward. They lounged comfortably by a raging fire in one of Winterfell's many studies, his brood clutching their new direwolf pups. Ned had to talk to them. To tell them of the importance of what was about to happen. He needed to make his point. Speaking from the history lessons he had learned from his father and Jon Arryn and his maesters, Ned began his story.

"Do any of you know the story of Alaric Stark?" Heads shook. "I thought not. Alaric was the lord of Winterfell from 50 AC until 72 AC and served under the beginning of the reign of King Jaehaerys I Targaryen. His brother, Walton, was to be the Lord of Winterfell before him. And when their father, Brandon died, Walton did become Lord of Winterfell. But not for long. There was a rebellion in the Night's Watch. During the reign of Maegor the Cruel, Maegor declared a war on the Faith Militant and the Poor fellows, the so called 'Stars and Swords,' warriors of the Faith of the Seven. Jaehaerys, when he came into power, ended the war. But he could not let those go unpunished. He sent all of the Stars and Swords to the Wall in thousands, so many the Watch was pressed to feed them. And these men could not abide by their rules. Walton rode out to put down the rebellion and kill the oathbreakers, but he was killed beyond the wall by a giant.

"Alaric blamed Jaehaerys for his brother's death. Jaehaerys sent a group of southron religious fanatics to the North, into House Stark's domain. And though Lord Alaric did his duty to the king and to the realm, and even warmed up to the Good Queen Alysanne, Alaric never forgave the king, and in turn, the southern way, for their sins against the North.

My point, my children, is this: King Robert Baratheon is journeying to Winterfell. And though we must do our duty to our king and we must do our duty to the realm, we must not forget. We are of the North, and the North remembers. The way of the south and their courts and pageantry are not for us. Do not be swayed by their ways. Remember that the blood of the First Men flows through your veins. And stay close to each other. Winter is coming, and in winter, the lone wolf dies while the pack survives."


	3. Expectations

**A/N**

**Hey everyone. I just wanna clarify something before this chapter. It's come to my attention that in aging up the Stark children, I mistakenly forgot to age up Bran and Rickon, making them younger than they should be. I apologize for this inconvenience, and I ask that y'all please overlook this mistake. It's completely my fault, but know that the tone and direction of the story will not be changed because they are younger than they technically should be. I hope y'all enjoy!**

**All my love,**

**KSB**

It had been a week and a half since word had reached Winterfell of the king's trek. Servants had been busy preparing for Robert's arrival: hunting parties had ridden out in search of game and to stake out wild boar for the king's own hunt, tapestries had been sewn and hung in the Great Hall, barrels of ale and wine from the Winterfell stores had been drawn and reserved, and the Royal guest quarters were cleaned and readied. As the Lady of Winterfell, Catelyn oversaw all of these preparations. Her keen eye kept a close watch to ensure everything was underway as it was intended.

She was overlooking the delivery and storage of salted herring gifted from White Harbor when a clang across the yard drew her attention. Jon was engaged in a scuffle with one of Theon's mates, a man by the name of Esmond. Esmond was the bigger and stronger of the two and had appeared to overpower Jon, though not before Jon managed to score a few of his own strikes. Guards rushed forward to break up their fight, and Catelyn herself had to fight to keep the bile in the back of her throat from pouring out.

_Family, Duty, Honor, _those were her family's words. And they were words she tried to live by. She was a loving and dutiful wife, a caring and nurturing mother, and a cunning master of the House. And yet, every time she looked at Jon, she felt as though every accomplishment she had achieved were thrown right back into her face. Jon was a sign of her husband's betrayal, a mark of her failure as a mother because she could not love him, and a remembrance that she could not control him, no matter how hard she tried. Every day she visited the small sept they kept inside the castle, built just for her, and prayed to the Seven for guidance and forgiveness. She would plead to the Mother, to the Maiden, to the Crone, and yet she found no deliverance. "We do not worship the Seven here," her Ned had told her when she first arrived at her new home. "This place belongs to the Old Gods." Catelyn wondered if Ned knew just how right he was. _No matter how much I pray, I fear my gods cannot hear me. They do not listen here, where they war with the Gods of Winter._

She felt a hand on her shoulder. Turning around, Catelyn saw the aging Maester Luwin. Luwin was short and balding, quiet by nature, but he was the smartest man she had ever known and loved her children with a fierceness to rival her own.

"My lady," he spoke, "I received a raven just moments ago. The letter is addressed to you, and is clear that you should be the one to break its seal."

"What sigil does the sear bear?" Catelyn asked.

"The wax is a light blue and bears the impression of a moon and falcon."

_Moon and falcon? Light blue wax? That was the sigil for house Arryn, in the Vale. And with Jon Arryn dead, this letter could only come from the hand of one person. Lysa._

"Find my lord husband and the both of you meet me in our chambers. I require your council when I open this correspondence. It must be from my sister Lysa, and I fear what she tells me."

"As you wish, my lady."

A few short minutes later, Catelyn, Ned, and Maester Luwin were gathered in the Lord and Lady's chambers. Cat grabbed a letter opener off of her table. She took a moment to collect herself. Lysa was a fickle girl who had grown into a fickle woman. The years of her marriage and many miscarriages had turned her paranoid, and she never wrote to her sister anymore. The fact that Lysa sent a letter now, on the hills of her husband's demise, gave Cat pause. Whatever was in this letter, when it was read, could not be unread. Taking a deep breath, she opened it.

Her eyes glazed over as she read the lines of careful script written in a secret code only Cat herself could decipher. Disbelief crept into her, followed, by foreboding and dread. _Jon Arryn was murdered. The Lannisters conspired to kill him and now the conspire to kill the king. Jon died because of a secret he found out, the only thing that could stop the Lannisters._ The accusations were wild and fearful, but there seemed to be an unwavering belief in the words.

"My sister writes to us. She says Jon Arryn was murdered by the Lannisters because he discovered a secret, and now the king's life is in danger." Cat inspected her husband's face closely. He loved Jon Arryn as if he was his own father, and it was no secret he harbored no love for the Lannisters. Ned's knuckles turned white as he clutched his fists, and a muscle in his jaw ticked. He was furious. But the sadness in his eyes could not be masked, no matter how hard he tried.

"I'm sorry, my love, I know how hard these accusations must sound to you, and I fear Lysa's logic has slipped but-"

"Cat," Ned cut her off, carefully, weighing his words. "We both know the risks your sister faced in sending that letter. What consequences would befall her should this have fallen into the wrong hands. Yet she sent it anyway. Why send it unless she was of absolute certainty?"

"I find the timing of the letter suspicious," Luwin spoke up. "To be so sure so soon after Lord Arryn's death, and to send the letter to the place the king is travelling to right before it arrives. 'Tis strange."

Ned sighed. "I know what Robert will ask of me, and I have no intention of accepting. But I fear Robert's years at court may have changed him, and now with this I worry that the _Lannisters_ may actually be plotting against him."

Cat felt worry bubble in the pit of her stomach. Ned could not ride south, could not become Hand of the King. It would kill him. But would Robert take no for an answer? With Lysa's letter, the stakes just became even higher, but she feared this would persuade Ned to act in the wrong way. His father and brother and sister had died in the south. She could not bear to lose him. "My lord, I beg you. Talk to Robert and convince him to find someone else. You say he loves you like a brother, use that love. Your place is here. You have no business in the follies of the southron lords." Cat looked into her Ned's eyes, saw the heartbreak and resolve that rested there. She knew her words had found her mark. All she could do now was pray that it was enough.

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Every time he closed his eyes, Bran saw the man's head come off. He would never forget the spray of blood that came from the man's wound, and the still expression on the face of his decapitated head would haunt him to the end of his days. Father felt him ready for the excursion, and Bran had thought so, too. Now, he feared they were both wrong.

Bran dreamed of bravery. Dreamed of a knighthood, even though knights kept the new gods and his family kept the old gods. Every night, when it was time to sleep, he would beg Old Nan to tell him stories. Some nights she would tell the stories of fantastical beasts such as dragons and giants, and he liked those well enough. Other nights she would tell of wights and wargs and grumpkins, and he liked those too, though they frightened him. But of all of Nan's tales, it was those of the heroes of legends that captured his imagination. Ser Duncan the Tall, Ser Aemon the Dragonknight, Simeon Star-Eyes, these were the figures to whom Bran worshipped, the men he hoped to be.

He wondered how many of his heroes had done it. Had looked a poor man in the eyes, heard his last words, and then taken his head off without a second thought. Did his heroes have the nerve? Did they use headmen when carrying out executions and only killed during battles?

No one Bran knew had met any of these men, and so he did not know the answers. But he thought about them a lot since that day. Every time he ran through that list of his heroes, he could not help but find that Father was topping them all.

Father humored his dreams of being a knight, but Bran knew father cared not for them. He respected them, and he loved Ser Rodrick, but to Lord Stark knighthood was simply an empty title for men with little valor to grow a large ego. He thought it unnecessary. _See, Bran, _Father had told him one day, _of all my lords bannermen, and of all their garrisons and households and guards, only a sparse collection of anointed knights can be found. Yet I trust them with my life. It matters not that they took no oath to a creed they do not serve. They swore their oaths to me and to our gods, and they are no worse men for it_. Bran always thought this silly. Surely knighthood was not all empty words? Father spoke before about Ser Barriston Selmy and Ser Arthur Dayne, for whom he shared an unwavering respect. In fact, Bran thought his father jealous because they held a title that he never could.

After that day, Bran began to rethink everything. He knew the southerners used headsmen. That fact never really mattered to Bran. What difference did it make who took the man's life, so long as it was done? He had grown up being told of the "Old Way," but it felt more like a repeatable fact than a way of life. Then he had witnessed the act in person. Bran did not know how Father had done it. How he was able to do the things he had done and go about life. That night, he had smiled and told tales to his children. He goes about his days acting as if what he did mattered not, but Bran, even in his youth, knew that it did.

In that moment, Father became braver, more noble, and more honorable than any legendary hero could. He did not abandon his hopes of being a knight, not completely, but he did rethink his views on valor. And his father became his new source of shining adulation.

·····

Arya paced her chambers, fuming. Anger rolled off of her in waves, and disobedience fired like electricity through her body and made her fingertips tingle. Nymeria, her direwolf, perched on her bed; she was tense as she watched her master stomp about. Arya tried to calm herself. She really tried. And yet, every time she did, she found herself more and more furious.

Septa Mordane had made a visit to her room. "A request from your lady mother," the Septa had said, smiling smugly. Arya cared not for the old bat. She was obnoxious and strict and treated her as less than the other girls of the castle. She seemed to take a particular likening to Arya's shortcomings. "She is teaching you the proper behavior expected of a lady of your caliber," her mother had told her over and over again. But Arya had no intention of being a proper lady, and so she resented Septa Mordane and everything she stood for.

Mordane's lecture had to do with the visit of the royal envoy and how she was expected to act. _Behave properly, dress finely, do not swear or insult the royal family, and blah blah blah!_ She had heard the speech enough. She had heard it every single day since she had been told. And contrary to popular belief, Arya was not stupid and she did have a certain amount of self-control. She was determined to not be the embarrassment of the family.

Alas, Septa Mordane had not the same faith in Arya that she had in herself. And so, she barged in and proceeded to give an impassioned diatribe calling out all of Arya's supposed flaws. "Arya," she started, "we must talk about what duties and behaviors you must perform in the coming month."

Arya, already bored, lazily replied, "I have been informed, Septa. Your time would be better spent lecturing someone else."

Mordane shook her head. "Just as I feared, you do not understand. This is not a visit from one of your father's bannermen or a passing minstrel. This is the lawful kind of the land we inhabit. This castle is as much his as it is your father's. You would do well to keep that in mind the next time you speak back to me in that tone when all I intend to do is help."

"Winterfell is not King Robert's. He has not set foot here."

"Nay, my child, it is more his than it is yours. And what you do here reflects not just on your family, but on the North as a whole and as a reflection of the work of the king and his reign. And therefore, certain things are required from you, no matter how you think them."

"I am not daft, Septa. I will do what I must for the king and his family."

"I do not trust your word, Arya. You have defied me time and time again. You fail in every womanly art I have tried to teach you. You cannot do needlework. You can neither sing nor dance properly. You care not for etiquette, and you choose to fight like a common renegade rather than live as a peaceful lady, something even your more capable sister has failed me in. I fear that your presence alone will disrupt the atmosphere."

Arya was beyond annoyed with the Septa now. How dare she say these things? She knew not what she was saying. The woman must be a fool! Day in and day out, Arya did as she asked. It was not her fault she was lousy at feminine duties; it was just her nature. To demean her, to belittle her for her shortcomings and calling all of her achievements less than was yet another slap in the face from the Septa. And Arya was fast losing her patience. Truly, she feared that should Mordane continue, Arya would strike her. Gods know the consequences that would come from that.

"Your words are bold, and yet I find in them a challenge. I shall not be the fool you find me to be. This I swear by the old gods and the new."

Mordane pursed her lips and let her eyes glance over Arya dismissingly. "I hope, for your sake, you are right. But I fear you are not." Without another word, she turned around and strode out of the room.

Arya replayed this conversation over and over again, letting all of her feelings of inadequacy and hatred take root. _They shall be my strength, my resolve._ She breathed. Calming herself down was a strenuous task, but one she achieved after some time. Crawling over to Nymeria, she pet the pup as she playfully nipped at her hand.

_I shall prove her wrong. I must_


	4. Our Place is Here

**Hey everyone, just a few quick words before the chapter. First off, I want to say a huge thank you to everyone who has followed and favorited this story. I honestly thought it was gonna be complete garbage (and it probably still is) but getting all of the notifications from y'all has been really heartening. I wanna give a special shoutout to the few people who left reviews. It means a lot to me that y'all actually took out time to leave a message, even if it was a sentence or two. Y'all are the best!**

**These next few weeks are gonna be hectic because I'll be going back to campus and moving into my new apartment and starting a new semester. What my plan will be then is to get a bunch of story-boarded chapters actually written and then release them on a regular schedule. I haven't completely decided, but I'm thinking maybe bi-weekly updates. I'll keep y'all posted; I might post an update chapter informing y'all of this, so keep your eyes peeled.**

**Lastly, I usually try to do at least three points of perspective per chapter, but this one felt complete with just two. The next one will be back to normal format.**

**That's it! I hope you all enjoy. And please, if you're reading this, be a good person. After all of the gun violence surrounding my country, the US, recently, I want all of you to please be safe and to be the best person you can be.**

**All my love,**

**KSB**

"Open the gates!"

The fastenings were undone and a quartet of men-at-arms pulled open the large, studded ironwood gates at the main gate of Winterfell. The castle garrison and servants ran around making last minute adjustments as King Robert's riding party approached.

Ned looked over his family, his careful eyes looking for any flaw that might offend the royal family. _The queen,_ Ned should say. Robert was not a man prone to frivolous affairs. In reality, he was more of a brute than any other man born to a great house that Ned had ever met. He was as brash and gaudy as a Tyroshi sellsword. He was a man of great appetite, of food and drink and women. After all, he had fathered his first bastard at the age of 14. The queen was another story.

Cersei Lannister was a cold and callous woman. Beautiful, but frigid. Ned had implored Robert not to marry her, to take for a wife any woman from any noble house that had fought for him in Robert's Rebellion, since he could not marry off his own sister, the lovely Lyanna. Ned had not, and _still_ did not, trust House Lannister. Everything they did, they did for power. They cared not for honor or tradition or chivalry. So long as they were powerful and rich and respected, they cared not for what means they used.

Ned remembered the moment he burst into the Red Keep's Great Hall and saw Jaime Lannister, the queen's twin brother and a sworn member of the King's Guard. Jaime sat on the Iron throne with his bloodied sword of gold on his lap and the dead King Aerys II Targaryen prone at his feet. He remembered seeing the broken corpses of the Princess Elia and her children Rhaenys and Aegon being wheeled in and given to Robert as a "gift of fealty." He remembered the smell of houses burning and hearing the screams of common folk as Lannister soldiers razed and sacked King's Landing. _Broken sacred oaths, innocent women and children slaughtered, common folk used as fodder, this is how the Lannisters gain their power._ Ned was determined that House Stark should not succumb to the same fate.

Still, there he stood, doing his duty to his beloved King, no matter now much he detested it. Ned was a man of honor. He had sworn his banners to Robert, to serve him faithfully and keep the North in his name. When Robert called, Ned was bound by honor to receive him and open his home. And so now he looked over his household. They all wore a face mixed with both excitement and boredom. Mostly boredom at the moment. His children stood straight and tall; even the little ones mustered as much dignity as they could for the occasion. He knew they would rather be playing or training or fighting with each other, exploring the Wolf's Wood or racing horses or telling jokes and making dares. Yet they stood there in their detested finery, having to act out of usual character for a group of strangers. Cat caught his eye and offered him a small smile, her blue eyes crinkling in the corners, her crimson hair braided carefully falling down her slender frame. _By the gods, she is the most beautiful woman in the world_.

The sound of hoof beats approaching caught the attention of the people in the castle yard, and everyone snapped to attention. A minute later, in rode Robert Baratheon, the First of his Name. Robert looked different since the last time Ned had saw him. The man before him was fat and red faced, and a coarse beard covered his jaw. Yet it was no denying it was him. Robert vaulted off of his horse just as an ornate wooden transport carriage rolled into the yard, followed by numerous kingsguards, knights, and freeriders. Everyone in the castle yard knelt.

Robert stood in front of him. "Ned," he spoke gruffly and bluntly, "it has been years. It seems you have gotten fat."

Ned gave the king a once over. "Your grace, with all due respect, have you seen your appearance in a mirror as of late?"

Robert stared at Ned for a beat, then broke out into a hearty laugh. The big man embraced Ned with a fierce strength. "Ah Ned, it has been too long, old friend. Too long. Now, everyone stand up!" He then went along the line, hugging his lady wife and complementing each of his children. Vayon Poole, Ned's steward, then came forward and offered the guest-rite gifts of bread and salt, which Robert ate, officially making him Winterfell's guest. Next, Cersei herself came forward.

Cersei had been standing back with her children and her brother as Robert made his introductions. But no longer could she avoid them. She came forward and presented her hand to Ned. He bowed and took it into his hand and pressed an obligatory kiss to her knuckles. "My queen." Cersei said not a word, and looked at him with utter apathy. Ned suppressed a sigh. _This stay would be a torturous one_.

After all the formal introductions between the Starks and Baratheons, Robert made a request. "Take me to your crypts, Ned. I wish to pay my respects."

Cersei protested, "We have traveled quite a long way, my dear husband, and the dead do not roam. Please, let us settle before-"

"Ned," Robert cut her off, his voice going hard at Cersei's gripes. Her emerald eyes went equally hard. Ned's loyalties belonged to Robert though, and he loved the man for not forgetting about his dear sister all these years later. Ned nodded. The pair of men walked through the yard and towards the older part of the castle, near the Godswood, leaving the clamor and bustle behind them. Ned took a flint-and-steel out of his trouser pockets and ignited a torch being held in a sconce outside of the crypt door. Opening the door, he ushered in his king and led the way down the winding stairs and towards the newest graves. The old Kings of Winter stared at them with stone eyes, their direwolves snarling at their feet. Darkness pressed at them on all sides, and yet, Ned felt no more at peace than in any other place.

Finally, the reached the newest graves. Lord Rickard Stark and his son Brandon, Ned's father and brother, were seated there. But it was the smaller tomb of Lyanna Stark that they had approached. Ned watched Robert's face, saw the longing and sadness that still permeated his demeanor. In that moment, both their hearts broke again. "Ah hell, did you have to lay her to rest here? She should be on a hill somewhere, surrounded by beautiful flowers and sitting under the bright sun. Not locked below in a damp cave," Robert choked out.

"She was of the North, and my sister besides. This was her place, and it was here that she found her rest," Ned responded.

Robert nodded, not fully accepting his answer but not arguing. To him, Lyanna would always be the love that was taken from him before he could claim her. Lyanna would always be his. They stood there in silence for some time, lost in their memories.

Finally, Robert turned to him. _This was it,_ Ned thought, _he shall ask me of the boon he carried here with him_. "Ned, I have not come just out of my grief. I have come to bestow upon you a great honor. Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I would name you Hand of the King."

Not knowing what to do, Ned dropped to a knee. Hand of the King was the second most powerful title in the realm, and a curse that he did not want. Being named Hand meant we would have to leave Winterfell and move to the shit saturated capital city and be surrounded by southron lords who lie and scam as easily as a serpent sheds its skin. "Your grace, I am not worthy of such an honor."

"Ah, save it! You are just as worthy a man as Jon was. I need you by my side. Someone has to rule the kingdoms while I drink and fuck my way to an early grave, and I could find not a better man than you."

"Your grace-"

"And no more of this 'your grace' nonsense. Come now, we have more affection for each other than that."

"Robert," Ned began again, "I fear I cannot serve you well in that post. We of the North live very different lives. I have no interest in the politics of court. I am but a simple servant of yours. By the gods, I serve you much better here than I ever could there."

"See now, this is why I must have you. Not a single member of my small council seeks to disagree with me. They kiss my ass and give me what I want. Now I usually complain not, but I need a man of honesty who I trust to be beside me. And there is not a single soul in this realm who I trust more than you, a man I consider more a brother than my own trueborn brothers."

Ned sighed. "Robert, I am sorry you wasted a month's time in coming here, but I do not see myself going south with you. A Stark's place is in the land of winter, not the land of beggars. The love I bear you is not lessened, understand, but it is what is best for myself and for my family."

"Aye, your family! Think of the opportunity presented to us. I have a son and heir, Joffrey, who is of an age with your Sansa. They could be wedded. Think of it, Ned! Our families finally united as they should have been 17 years before. And one day, your grandchildren shall sit the iron throne."

"No." Ned had not meant for his voice to grow so stony or for his posture to stiffen, but he would not allow that to happen. His father and brother had ridden off south and had died. His sister was promised to a southerner and was taken by another, and died. Southerners had come to the North and had nearly taken from Ned things that he held dear. He would not let that happen again. "I mean no offense, but my children are of the North, and here they shall stay. They will marry into the noble houses of the North and will rule Northern holdfasts. The only child I may consider betrothing out of the North would be Robb. I am sorry Robert, but you will have to find a different bride for your heir."

Robert glowered at Ned. "You must still be in grieving and your senses have taken leave of you. Remember, the North is just one of the kingdoms that I hold. It is as much mine as it is yours. No matter. I shall give you a few days to think on this offer, _truly think_, before I require your final answer. Ponder carefully."

Robert was angry. Angry at being denied so bluntly and angry at a refusal of a Baratheon and Stark union. He turned without another word and strode out of the crypt, taking the torch with him. Ned had no choice but to follow the receding light, hoping that he did not destroy his relationship with his dearest friend.

·····

The Great Hall of Winterfell had never been more boisterous. King Robert was as bawdy as Father had recounted. He began the meal at the head seat of the great table, but as the courses came and went and the ale and wine flowed, he moved to the common tables, grabbing well-endowed serving wenches and laughing in his cups with the Winterfell and King's Landing men. Laughter erupted and cheers and cajoles rang from every table, drowning out the minstrels playing their delicate instruments and singing sweet tunes.

From her seat, Sansa took it all in. To a degree she enjoyed the commotion, and she had no complaints of the several cups of wine she was permitted to have. _No doubt this is the most entertaining meal I have seen_, she thought as she nibbled on a lemon cake. But she imagined this behavior tired quickly. The king had no dignity and openly groped other women in front of his wife and children. She wished for the company of her direwolf, Lady. Father had not permitted them at the welcoming or at the feast.

Speaking of, Sansa glanced at Queen Cersei. She was perhaps the most conventionally beautiful woman Sansa had ever seen. She was of above average height, had a slim but graceful frame, and perfect posture. Her face was flawless, as was her complexion, and her facial features were striking. Her golden hair was intricately braided and put in an updo, showcasing her long and slender neck.

But the queen was dreadful company. When she talked to Sansa, she got the sense that every question was a test and every remark carried a double meaning. She tried her best to be polite, but she found it to be hard work. When Cersei was not talking to Sansa or to another woman or her children, she sat still, looking disgusted. She had looked disgusted the minute she stepped out of her carriage. Sansa could not help but feel a bit offended. This was her home. She could not see how the queen could not see the beauty of the haunting sentinel and oak trees standing tall, of the sleet that gave everything it touched an ethereal glow, of the shadows created in the hearth of a roaring fire. The queen's appearance might be beautiful, but not another thing about her was.

Her other prominent company were the two princes and the princess. Prince Tommen was Bran's age and easily excited, and the two talked intently all night about knights and wars and horses and weapons. It warmed Sansa's heart to see the two innocent young boys so excited by each other's company. The Princess Myrcella was a nice enough girl, only two years younger than Sansa herself. But Sansa got the sense the girl did not, or was not allowed to, have close friends. She was initially reserved and spoke in a quiet voice that Sansa had to strain to hear over the racket. It took time and a gentle approach before the princess actually began to make meaningful conversation. Maybe with a little more time, she and the princess could be better friends, but it would be slow going. Sansa felt an ache on her left shoulder. A reminder. She knew what it was like to be friendless. She felt more sympathy for the princess than she ever expected.

It was the Crowned Prince Joffrey who bothered Sansa. He was ten-and-four, the same age as Sansa, and a beauty from afar. Yet up close she found his appearance slightly off-putting. His lips were too plump and red and looked like worms. His nose was just a tad too sharp, his hair too flat, and his eyes were cruel. He was not skilled in conversing either. Surely, there was many a maiden who had been swooned, but Sansa could not see his appeal. When he talked, he always brought the conversation to himself and to his achievements. He disregarded the servants and treated them as if they were not worth his gaze. And he made awful jests at the expense at any and everyone he found around. There was not a doubt in Sansa's head that he found himself clever. She found him near unbearable.

There was a time when this would have been Sansa's greatest dream. She would have been charmed by the queen and would have adored Joffrey the moment her eyes laid upon him. She would have wanted to live in this world of revelry for as long as she could, for this night to never end. She would have gone to the small sept and prayed to her mother's gods insisting that she be allowed to marry Joffrey and have his children and one day be named queen. Now, she could think of nothing more heinous.

The night was growing long by now, and the last of the deserts had been served near an hour ago. King Robert declared the feast over but that anyone who wished to stay and drink and jest may stay. Sansa took this opportunity to excuse herself. It was not very polite of her to leave the feast without the company of an escort or without giving a proper goodbye to the queen and her children, but she could not spend another moment there. She needed a respite.

Walking out of a side door, she exited the Great Hall and walked out of a sparsely decorated foyer. She then walked across a small, deserted courtyard and was about to walk up a staircase leading to a branch of scaffolding connected to the upper floor walkways of Winterfell when she heard a noise. A whistle through the air followed by a _thunk_, as if something was being swung into another object. _Swordplay, _Sansa realized. _Someone was practicing their swordsmanship on a padded dummy._ Rounding the corner of the courtyard and into a practice yard, she found the source of the commotion. Her half-brother, Jon. Sweat beaded on his brow as he swung his sword again and again, slashing and stabbing. His movements were jerky and not controlled, not how jon usually fought. He was taking his frustrations out.

She cleared her throat. Jon whirled around to see who interrupted him, a slight on his lips. When he saw it was only Sansa, he let his comment die. She gazed ponderously at him. They stood only a few feet away from each other, but Jon seemed a world away. "I looked for you at the feast, but you seemed to lose interest fast. How long have you been here?" she asked him.

He sighed. "I am afraid I lost track of time. I have had much to think on. I needed something to occupy my mind."

"And what troubles you so?"

Jon looked at her, his eyes growing sad. He had the gray eyes of Father. Eyes that she used to be glad she did not have, but now she envied him for them. He could not hold his gaze. _He is guilty_. "I talked to Uncle Benjen at the feast."

Benjen Stark was First Ranger of the Night's Watch. He was permitted a break from his duties to attend the king's welcoming. And though he was a Stark by blood and held a high office in the Watch, he chose to sit at the common tables with men like Jon and other members of the castle garrison. Benjen was a great man; it was always a treat to be with him.

"And what words did our beloved uncle bestow on you that have agitated you this much?"

"It is not what he said to me, actually, but rather what I asked him."

Sansa watched him intently, not liking where this was going. "And what did you ask him." Jon would not ask her. "Jon," she tried again, "tell me."

"Sansa, I-" he gulped. "I…I asked Uncle Benjen if I could go to the Wall with him."

Sansa felt dread build up in the pit of her stomach. She could not imagine a life at Winterfell without Jon there. He was a foil for Robb and kept Theon in check. He defended Arya and teased Bran and cared for little Rickon. And he had saved her life. Once upon a time, his departure would not have meant much to her. But now, she owed him a debt that she could probably never repay. And since then, she had grown to love and appreciate him in a way she never had before.

She felt tears spring up in the corners of her eyes, but she forced herself to suck them back in. "Jon, you must not go," she said, trying her hardest to keep her voice from wavering.

Gently, he said, "Sansa, understand there is no true place for he here."

"What nonsense is this? Mayhap you know not, but you are needed. We require you more than the Wall does."

"What shall I do with the rest of my life? I shall neither rule a holdfast nor marry into a family. Father cannot look at me without shame, and Lady Stark cannot bear to look at me at all. I love you and my siblings dearly, but I am not a Stark."

"How dare you! How dare you neglect yourself. Mind your words, Jon, you might be a Snow in name but you are a Stark at heart. So you shall not inherit a castle or be betrothed to a woman of not your choice. The blood of the First Men runs through your veins just as it does mine, and my father is yours despite his shame. You can marry who you choose, and you can stay here and serve Winterfell. Do not exile yourself for fear of rejection Jon. Please!"

At this point, a tear escaped her eyes, and her throat closed up. She knew at some point she and her siblings would have to go their separate ways as they each fulfilled their own fates. But she was not ready for that now. And she could not bear the thought of Jon punishing himself for the simple fact of his birth. After everything he had done for her, she could not bear it.

Jon came to her and wrapped her in an embrace. Holding her tight, he whispered apologies. Sansa felt him shake with sadness, but she feared it was not enough. She tore out of his embrace and walked as briskly as she could to her chambers with him calling out to her.


End file.
